Battleground: Earth
by Majick
Summary: It is the year 1999. Earth has become the subject of increasingly agressive alien visitations. The leaders of the freeworld have established X-Com - the Extraterrestial Combat Unit - to investigate and defeat the aliens, and save the world.


**_Prologue_**

I suppose that I should have taken the hint when the ramp of the Skyranger dropped to the ground and the head of the man in front of me disappeared in a puff of red.

There was a moment of shock, and then Sergeant Reynolds leapt forward, clearing the ramp in one bound and tossing a grenade out into the darkness. There was a bang as the grenade exploded, but none of the agonising screams that I'd been told to expect, and that the video of the team's only other mission had drilled into my skull.

I stepped forward gingerly, making sure not to step on the man's corpse. Whatever his name had been - Rogers? Ryan? - he hadn't known what had hit him, which I suppose was a blessing.

Here I was, eighteen years old, on the best transport craft known to mankind, armed with the finest weaponry available to any government on the planet and supported by some of the finest soldiers available.

I wasn't comforted by any of this. I knew what was out there.

* * *

In case you don't know, my name is Michael Clark. I'm eighteen years old, and after six months of training to be a Royal Navy Marine, I was plucked from my unit and dropped onto a patch of scrubby terrain somewhere, I think, in southern America. U had been given a Desert Eagle pistol - not my first choice - and three flash-bang grenades, and ordered to take down anything else inside the perimeter.

I checked the pistol's clip - armour piercing bullets. Fine. Why give me a lethal gun and non-lethal grenades? I would have sighed, but silence on a battlefield is to be treasured.

I sat there for several minutes, waiting for something to happen. When nothing did, I stood up and looked around.

Flat, as far as the eye could see. Except for one small hillock, maybe two-hundred metres away. If there was something out here, that's where it was.

I approached with care, one hand holding the pistol steady, the other holding one of the grenades. When I got in range, I primed the grenade and let it fly, sending it arcing up and over the hillock. I shut my eyes and heard the bang as it exploded. There was a muffled yelp that told me where my target was, and I charged up the hill, throwing myself flat on top of it, with the pistol aimed in front of me.

I stopped.

The creature on the other side was about three feet tall, with grey skin and a large, egg-shaped head. It didn't wear any clothes, and its skin was loose and sagging. It was clutching at its eyes, apparently wounded by the grenade. A silvery object, vaguely rifle-like in appearance, lay at its feet. It didn't seem to have any other weapons.

I scrambled to my feet and leapt down the hill, my third step bringing me within range of the creature. My foot lashed out, catching it under the jaw and sending it sprawling backward to the floor. I kicked the silvery weapon away and trained my pistol between the creature's large, blank eyes.

"That will do."

The landscape and creature flickered before my eyes, and then vanished. I found myself in a largish room that seemed like the interior of a warehouse. The gun was gone from my hands, and the absence of any weight at my belt told me that the grenades were gone as well.

"Congratulations."

I turned to find myself face to face with a man in the uniform of an American Army general, and a highly decorated one at that. Absent any orders, I saluted and awaited further information.

"You're the first person not to kill it," he said. "Why?"

"It wasn't a threat," I said. "And it looked old."

The general smirked. It hadn't escaped my notice that he didn't have an American accent.

"It is old. Fifty three years old, to be exact, or at least it's been on Earth for fifty three years. It exists, and it's currently in containment in Roswell, New Mexico. Now, do you know why I'm telling you all this?"

I had an idea.

"It's the landings, isn't it?" I asked. Where once claims of UFO landings had been solely the province of crackpots and low IQ attention-seekers, in the last twelve months it had become impossible to deny that aircraft of unknown origins had been overflying major cities such as Bangladesh, London, New York and Munich. Dozens of craft had been caught on camera, and with the emergence of the Internet, it was almost impossible to go online without finding new footage.

Before enlisting, I'd been interested in the subject, having seen two UFOs myself. Since then, I'd been too exhausted from my training to take much of an interest in anything much, but I supposed that somehow my interest had become known.

"Correct. You've been selected to serve your planet. We want to know more about these things, and to do that, we have to capture them."

"May I ask a question, sir?"

"Go ahead."

"How many captured aliens do we have in captivity?"

"Ever, or currently?"

"Both, sir."

"Ever - six. Currently - one. That one," he jerked a thumb at where the wrinkled, grey, well, alien had been. "We don't know what we've done right with that thing. The others we've captured all died quickly - four just like that one, and one that was different."

"There's more than one type?"

"Yes."

"And we're going to fight them?"

"They've attacked us already," he said, frowning. "They landed one of their craft at Russian air force base and obliterated it. No survivors, no evidence of alien involvement apart from a few scattered reports we got before the base went offline."

"Have we tried contacting them?"

"Of course," he replied, nodding at my inclusion of myself in 'we'. "No response. Maybe they don't hear us, or don't understand us, but they're trouble. There's only so many mutilated human remains we can find before our tolerance breaks, and that happened about three weeks ago.

"I've told you a lot, and there's a reason for that. You're not volunteering - you're a conscript. We've picked the best - the best pilots, the best soldiers, the best tacticians. You've been chosen because you're a good all-rounder, and have a prior interest in the subject. We operate a little looser than most military organisations - we have to, but make no mistake, this is a black operation. So black that it makes normal black operations look like a paler shade of white. Outside of the twenty or so people in the organisation already, we're looking to recruit around fifteen soldiers and a few tech guys."

"What's the organisation called?"

"X-Com - Extraterrestrial Combat Unit," he said. "And you're now a private. Pay is $40,000 US a month."

My eyes must have bugged open at this, because he smiled.

"You'll work for it, and to be honest if you're still here after two months I'll be surprised. We've already paid that much to get you out of the Marines - we own you, Private Clark. Welcome to the world saving business."

A two week initiation period followed, in which I was subjected to batteries of tests to gauge my reactions, my strength, my stamina, my accuracy with different types of weapons... By the end of the two weeks, I was ready to collapse. I never did see the supposed general again.

One thing that he didn't mention was family. I had none. I assumed that this was a plus for X-Com, if survival rates were as low as predicted.

Still, that $40,000 (tax-free!) looked nice, sitting in my account, at the end of the month.

Come the 1st of January, myself and my fellow trainees were shipped out to Roswell, where the X-Com base had formed as an offshoot of Area 51 (Yeah, that exists.)

There were fifteen of us, no more than three from any one nation. I was the only Brit, my closest counterpart being a Frenchman named Lavelle. There were three Russians, three Americans, an Australian, two Germans and twin Japanese women who were said to be capable of running marathons in full combat gear, and still having steady enough hands to put a bullet through someone's heart at two hundred yards. They were silent, and still, and scared the bejesus out of anyone with the sense to be scared.

The only two who didn't seem to have that sense were an Egyptian and a Brazilian, who had bonded, somewhat improbably, over a shared love of cricket. At first they had thought that myself or the Australian soldier would be good for a conversation about the sport, but I can't stand it, and the Australian simply flexed his huge muscles until they went away. They instead took up seats in front of the Japanese twins and chattered rapidly back and forth, their heavily accented English almost incomprehensible to me. I have no idea how they understood one another.

There were fifteen of us, as I have said. We were assigned a living quarters that was shared with all the base personnel. The organisation's technicians and engineers were also stationed at the base, and to my mild surprise there was no attempt to split the quarters by gender. We were left to sort ourselves out. Two of the engineers had been hard at work before our arrival, though, and had constructed a plastic screen that dropped across the middle of the room. Opaque and solid, it was as good as a wall, although the Brazilian claimed that he could see shadows through it and kept up a running commentary of the females' supposed actions as we all undressed for bed.

Later that night, we were awakened by the harsh klaxon that told us that a UFO had been detected. The base's commanding officer, a woman named Wells, emerged from his private room and ordered us to dress for combat. He ordered ten of the soldier's into the transport ship while one of the unit's two Interceptor pilots sprinted to the hangar where his jet was stationed. Moments later, we heard a roar and felt the walls shake as the jet lifted off and kicked in its afterburners, streaking off in pursuit of the craft.

Those of us not assigned to the transport craft hustled down to the radar centre, where the UFO and Interceptor were being tracked.

We watched in almost complete silence, thirty people crowding into a tiny room and watching two blips on a screen converge.

"I have visual."

One of the technicians reached forward and flicked a switch. The main screen in the room lit up and we could see a poor-quality picture of the night sky. A small, light-coloured dot stood out faintly against the sky, growing larger as the Interceptor closed.

"Magnifying," the technician muttered, twisting a dial. "And filtering."

The image cleared slightly, and I was treated to my first clear sight of a UFO.

It was cross-shaped, and constructed from a silvery-blue material that looked like polished steel. I voiced this, but the technician shook his head.

"Alien alloys," he reported. "Much tougher than anything we can come up with. You know how strong spider's webs are?"

I nodded.

"Stronger than that, proportionally."

I returned my gaze to the screen.

"Closing to cannon range," the pilot reported.

On-screen, I realised that a datastream had appeared regarding the cross-shaped craft. It's maximum recorded speed was far in excess of that of the Interceptor, so much so that it almost appeared to be teasing us.

"You're right," the CO said. "They're testing us, no doubt about it. They want to know what we're capable of."

"Firing," the pilot reported.

The Interceptor shook as the pilot triggered the onboard machine guns. Depleted uranium shells spat out in the direction of the ship, striking home with unerring accuracy. I could sense the feeling of triumph emanating from the room's occupants.

"Any damage?"

There was a pause, and then the pilot's voice came back.

"None, as far as I can tell. Don't even know if it penetrated."

"Close and fire again," Wells ordered. "Keep firing until you're out of ammo, if needs be."

"Roger."

The Interceptor increased speed to the maximum, closing on the UFO and emptying its cannons at the ship. Nothing seemed to happen.

"Wait, something's happening."

The UFO slowed to a halt and spun around through 180 degrees. There was a green flash.

"I'm hit! Port stabiliser lost! Damage to port fuel line!"

"Break off!" Wells ordered. "Get out of there."

The pilot complied, the UFO seeming to shift on screen as the Interceptor banked carefully away from the conflict.

"Wait, receiving something," the tech muttered. He twisted a dial, and a hissing came over the speakers.

"Clean that up," Wells ordered.

"That's the message, sir," the tech replied. "It's coming from the UFO. We're recording, sir, for translation."

I didn't need a translation. I knew that the aliens were laughing at us.

_To be continued..._


End file.
